


Sentiment is dangerous

by FaithlessAngel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:31:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 6,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7252162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaithlessAngel/pseuds/FaithlessAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John discovers he is in love with Sherlock, Sherlock attempts to make him admit it</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dining with death

"Just when we're you going to tell me I was dating a serial killer?" John shouted.  
"I did tell you."  
"Not until after my third date with her!"  
"Nonsense! I told you last Wednesday!"  
"Last Wednesday I spent the entire day at the surgery!"  
"Hardly my fault you weren't listening!"  
"You do know I can't actually hear you when I'm out!"  
Lestrade groaned loudly. "Sherlock. I need to know the name of the serial killer John was dating." Both Sherlock and John turned sharply to look at Lestrade. "Janet Black. The bodies are buried in her landlord's backyard at 426..." Sherlock continued on with the description, finally telling Lestrade to hurry, that she'd be leaving the country in exactly an hour. Lestrade swore and ran to apprehend her, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the room. They caught a cab home, Sherlock thinking and John stalwartly ignoring his presence. John stormed upstairs before Sherlock, slamming the door to the flat behind him. John retreated to his room, not wanting to see Sherlock now, much less talk to him. 

The next morning John was walking into the kitchen, still ignoring Sherlock, when Sherlock spoke.  
"Why does it matter to you?"  
"Because I could have died!"  
"You were never in any danger."  
"Sherlock! She poisoned her victims and there I was having dinner with her!"  
"I would have intervened if..."  
"Are you following me on dates again?" John interrupted. Sherlock was silent. "My God Sherlock! What are you so afraid of?" John stormed back upstairs, spilling his coffee on the way. He left Sherlock standing in the living room, and was too angry to stay and hear the answer Sherlock whispered. 

John went downstairs hours later. Sherlock was asleep on the couch, his usually calculating face childish in slumber. The flat was cold, the winter outside making the windows frost over and the walls creak. Absent-mindly John spread a blanket carefully over Sherlock. He went back upstairs, crawling into bed, though he knew it would be a relatively sleepless night. It hit him then. And he was amazed he hadn't seen it. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

John always found the detective attractive, but he'd never seriously thought about taking it any further. Not until now, that is. And it was becoming extremely distracting! He'd gotten himself told off by Sherlock countless times, Sherlock thought he was simply not paying attention. John knew he was paying attention, but definitely not to their crime scenes. Did Sherlock know? Possibly. Probably. Maybe? It was so hard to tell with him. John was avoiding Sherlock as much as possible. He knew as soon as any kind of argument broke out the truth would fly out in an instant.  
"John!" John froze on his way up the stairs to his room. "Why are you avoiding me?" John was silent.  
"I'm not avoiding you. I'm going to bed."  
"It's 4:30."  
"I'm tired."  
"No you aren't."  
"Fine. No. I'm not." John whirled to face him, feigning anger and trying desparatly to come up with something to yell st Sherlock for. The real reason could not be known. John faltered in seeing Sherlock's face. Sherlock looked genuinely concerned.  
"You never..." John stopped, the rest of his sentence dying before it could even be fabricated.  
"John? I never what?"  
"Milk! We're out of milk!" John proclaimed suddenly, rushing out of the flat. What was he going to do? Sherlock had been bound to notice the change. Even the least observant person could notice it fairly easily, it must have been child's play for Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock had seen through him, and maybe that was why Sherlock had let himself be ignored and avoided for so long. But why the sudden confrontation?

A new girlfriend. That was the answer. Someone that he could use to explain away his change in demeanor. He didn't really want a new girlfriend. Janet had made him question his judgment, and lessened his desire to have a girlfriend. That was the only answer. Get a girlfriend. With this decided, John headed back to the flat. 

A loud crash greeted John as he arrived as 221B. He rushed upstairs. A shouting match was ensuing in the flat. "No!" "I told you! You will go! And you will have a date on your arm! That's final!" Mycroft rushed past John on the stairs, not even acknowledging his existence. What was going on here? John stepped over a broken mug into the flat.   
"You're becoming my fiancé." John heart beat stopped.   
"What?" He practically shouted at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes.   
"For a day. Mummy is having a party on my parents anniversary. I'm supposed to come. With a date. Which, has to be you."   
"Mycroft said a date. Not necessarily me."  
"It has to be you. Who else could stand me for that long." John blinked, almost flattered at the mention of his long suffering state. "No milk?" Sherlock asked. John flinched.   
"The store was out." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn't respond. 

John needed a girlfriend. Not an engagement. Especially not an engagement to someone he was trying to hide feeling for. This was not going to be good.


	2. Well laid plans, or is it plots?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ol' switcheroo. Conversation between Sherlock and Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind me. I'm just playing with the point of view.
> 
> Please don't kill me. I thought it'd be cool.

"Mummy's having a party."  
"I'm aware. And I need a favor."  
"I owe you one as you well know."  
"It is in the area of sentiment."  
"God no."  
"John has recently become aware of his feelings for me."  
"Which you reciprocate?"   
"Don't interrupt. He's been acting strange and the sooner he comes to grips with it the sooner he'll get back to being not boring. The only way I'll get him to admit his feelings is if I make him uncomfortable enough to have to. He's due back soon, when he gets to the flat I'll throw something and you can tell me I need a date for the party. Understood?"   
"Brother dear, that's hardly something you'd usually like to be indebted to me for."  
"I'm not indebted to you. This will be part of the debt payment for investigating where your cakes disappear to."


	3. Facades, Fakeries, and Night Frights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Practice makes frustrated.

This was so much worse than a bit not good. Sherlock had been insisting they practice being engaged to make it believable. This meant a lot more physical contact, and a lot more times John had to concentrate not to just kiss Sherlock right then and there and blurt out what he felt. But it was all a game to Sherlock. The countless touches a day we're a facade. Sherlock insisting they share a room and John waking up to Sherlock's pajama clad body wrapped around him, himself holding on just as tightly, were just an act. What looked like genuine emotion in Sherlock's eyes was fake. Wasn't it? 

The practicing was delightful torture. John's heart leapt at every touch, and his mind frolicked though meadows in worlds where Sherlock loved him back. But John's reason always won. Hold back, it demanded. To Sherlock it's just a game, he had to remind himself. He couldn't become attached to those touches. As much as they meant to him, Sherlock felt nothing, and would end the whole thing when the party was past, or whatever experiment he may be conducting was over. Now if only John could convince his heart of that, and make it remember. But it wasn't listening. Every morning when he woke up in a warm embrace, every careful touch, his heart danced a jig in glee. John had never had an addiction, but was this what it felt like? This craving for something, constantly. John didn't know. But he knew once it stopped, it may destroy him. 

John woke up to the warm, comforting embrace of another body. He'd had a nightmare. He was rather surprised he hadn't strangled the person next to him in the throws of it. John tried to relax, but didn't get very far. There was the gentlest of kisses on his cheek, almost his ear. "Go back to sleep luv."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm evil. Mwa hahaha.


	4. Cases are not the Priority

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's pov, his attempts at cracking John

Sherlock smiled to himself. John's body was relaxed, he was asleep. Sure, it was a low blow suggesting feelings in the middle of the night, when he knew John would only have a vague memory of in the morning. But, he assumed he had to start somewhere. And how could he make John admit his feelings without some gentle persuasion. Sherlock couldn't be the first to mention it. John would get defensive, or avoid him. There was no going about it from any other way than indirectly making John confess. It was proving to be harder than Sherlock had thought. Multiple hugs a day hadn't worked. Neither had small touches nearing on caresses. It was time to add a new tactic to help the old. Mummy's party was weeks away. Sherlock couldn't remember the exact day, he'd deleted it to remember John favorite colors, shoe size, and favorite foods. He could ask Mycroft. But that would include a lengthy conversation about how making John confess was going. Best just to wait until the formal invitation arrived. 

John had a nasty habit of self control. Nothing Sherlock had tried had worked. Not nearly kissing him by "accident" throughout the day. Not laying his head on John's lap while John watched Tele on the couch. Sherlock was beginning to wonder if he would ever crack the former soldier. That nasty self control. When Sherlock had laid his head on John's lap John had almost petted Sherlock's head, but stopped his hand, and held it clenched against his side until the program ended. Sherlock debated, once again wrapped around John in bed, how he could get him to admit it. Lestrade had texted today. Sherlock had ignored it. They'd get there soon enough without him. Sherlock had his Blogger to crack, cases, for the moment, came second.

Sherlock would get hurt. Somehow. Engineering a minor injury wouldn't be hard. That would get John. He hoped. He needed John to admit it. The need for John to confess was like a persistent ache in his stomach. It had to happen soon. Or he just might go insane. 

Sherlock retrieved a ladder, and began dropping light bulbs off of it onto the floor. John came into the flat, and stared, as Sherlock dropped 5 more bulbs off the ladder.  
"What are you doing?" John nearly shouted.  
"Cataloging the break patterns of different kinds of light bulbs. You see if I can see which kind of.."  
"Stop talking now. I'm not sure I really want to know." John sounded resigned. Truthfully Sherlock was doing no such cataloging. He wasn't even doing a real experiment. He was up on the ladder, because he needed to fall. Sherlock waited until Joh went into the next room. He had purposely placed the ladder on some uneven floorboards. His fall was planned. He had diluted one eye already, he knew how to play the role. Sherlock scurried down the ladder, kicked it over, dropped a full box to bulbs and lay down with his head propped uncomfortably against the cabinet.  
"Christ Sherlock!" John ran into the room, sounding as if to scold him for making so much noise. Instead John stopped in his tracks, and then hurried to Sherlock's side. Sherlock felt John clear glass carefully away from him, and then felt John lift his arm and check his pulse. John then checked for breathing and carefully checked for spinal or neck injury. Having discerned no injuries were to be had, John got Sherlock away from the cupboard, and lay him on his side. Sherlock continued feigning unconciousness.  
"You better wake up soon. If your rediculous experiment got you hurt I'll kill you for doing it." John paused.  
"Where did you get a ladder anyway?"  
"Come on Sherlock. Wake up. No extended unconsciousness. Not for you, luv." John was quiet. A sense of triumph swelled in Sherlock's chest. John had admitted it. Not to Sherlock while he thought Sherlock could hear, but he had. It was out loud now. And things once said, were often hard to keep from saying again.


	5. It begins!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the infamous party.

John was being an idiot.  
"You have a concussion!"  
"It's been 2 weeks! I'm fine!"  
"We can't go to your mother's party! You need to rest."  
"Neither of us will get out of it that easily!"  
"Fine! I'll go change into that suit." John stormed up the stairs. Sherlock smiled to himself. He had John frustrated, worried about his health, and soon he would be very uncomfortable. For making no progress in the last two weeks, Sherlock was very hopeful. Sherlock, who was still perfectly fine, changed into the purple shirt, which people on John's blog were calling the purple shirt of sex, or something along those lines of supreme idiocy. His suit was fully put on and he was draped across the couch by the time John came back. John swallowed audibly as he saw Sherlock. Sherlock smiled to himself as John turned away to retrieve his phone. The fans on the blog must have been right to a certain extent. Mummy knew about the scheme. Of course she did. She had also offered her support, saying the puzzle of cracking John would be an. Excellent treat for her on her anniversary. John was back, and moments later they were in the cab. 

The game, was on. Mummy greeted Sherlock and John at the door, she'd already had a glass of champagne, obvious from the scent of Dom Pérignon on her breath.  
"Oh Sherlock," she crooned, "is this your fiancé?" Mummy was an old fashioned sort, and extended a hand for John to kiss.  
"Pleased to meet you Mrs. Holmes."  
"Oh please John dear, call me Mummy. Now, you two make sure you have fun." Mummy dismissed them, ready to greet the next guest that arrived at the door of the Holmes Mansion. The entryway opened up to the formal ballroom, and John gasped. Sherlock had to smile. The three giantic crystal chandeliers combined with the sheer size of the room was impressive, though Sherlock had been descentsitized after growing up seeing it almost daily. The room was full of people, Mummy's friends, Sherlock could only assume. Most of them he had never met, but they all knew him. Mummy loved to brag. Mummy had hired caterers, and there was a large area with food and small round tables for eating. The rest of the room dissolved into a dance floor and conversational groupings of chairs around the edges. 5 possible escape routes, 8 secret spots if he needed them. Sherlock almost smiled. Tonight, reguardless the tedious party and socializing, would be great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My phone corrected champagne to milk 4 times. Apparently it disapproves of alcohol.


	6. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John dance, interesting things are said.

John was jumpy. The engagement ring on his finger felt unfamiliar and foreign. It had been presented to him almost a week ago, and yet he still felt uncomfortable, he was wearing his feelings in something he had been forbidden to take off, by a man he was supposedly engaged to, that didn't know he had forced John to be exposed in that way. It was a charming piece, a silver band with a purple stone John had not yet been able to identify. Sherlock wore a matching one, and it made John's heart thrill everytime he saw it. It proclaimed that Sherlock belonged to him. Even if it was a lie, it was a rather delightful fantasy. 

John was trying his best to ignore the tables of tantalizing food, which forced him to look at Sherlock, who was even more tempting than the food. Sherlock caught his eye and gave him an interesting look, one John couldn't quite read, but had to look away from. John's eyes roamed, until they found a waiter expertly balancing a tray with champagne. Another eccentric gentleman came to greet Sherlock, the next in a long line of eccentric gentlemen eager to meet the famous son. John would need to get a buzz going, or he'd never get through the night. Once he had the champagne, he downed the glass, taking a sip everytime a gentleman greeted Sherlock, and the glass emptied alarmingly quickly. The orchestra in the corner was playing quietly and couples were beginning to circle on the dance floor. John could see Mummy Holmes dancing with a portly man, and she seemed to be having a marvelous time. Sherlock was suddenly behind John and the deep baritone voice was humming in his ear. "I tire of the celebrity seekers. Care to dance?" John nodded, and Sherlock lead him to the dance floor. John was more used to club dancing, which consisted more of grinding or jumping, but Sherlock obviously knew how to dance, and very well, leading John around the dance floor in an elegant waltz. John couldn't help but stare up at Sherlock, and within minutes his neck began to cramp. After he could no longer stand it he laid his head on Sherlock's chest, moving even closer to Sherlock's body. Sherlock hummed contentedly deep in his chest, and John focused on the sound, filtering out the sound of the party. The words were out of his mouth before he could think, and he couldn't find it in himself to regret them.   
"I love you." John had barely whispered it. Sherlock kept humming for a while, and then spoke, ever so quietly.   
"Then we may not have to return these engagement rings."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! A few updates. I changed up chapters some, nothing major, mostly just combining some here and there. Some of your comments did get deleted in the process. Sorry. Also!! THE RATING IS CHANGING. Until now (for those reading this as I update it) it has been General Audiences, it's changing to teen and up, because in next chapter there may be some kissing and nothing explicit, but there may be some suggestions and I don't feel comfortable leaving the rating General with that. Thanks!!


	7. Antisocial? Escape!!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's having a rather interesting night.

John had had several drinks, and was rather woozy. He had found out from Sherlock that this party would last well into the night, and he was beginning to worry if he'd make it through it. Sherlock had had at least one drink, but still seemed perfectly sober. They were both sitting for the moment, and John was trying to catch his breath. They had both been whisked away multiple times to dance, and the dances had become more and more frequent. Just as John was trying to count how many times he had danced as he was whisked away again by Mummy Holmes. More dances and what seemed like hours later, John was dancing again with Sherlock. Sherlock bent low to whisper in John's ear.  
"If I have to dance with one more of these interminable people I fear Lestrade will have a mass homicide to investigate. Shall we leave the festivities early?" John nodded enthusiastically, and Sherlock lead him through the croud to a discreet door John hadn't formerly noticed. There was a blur of dark hallway, and then the click of a latch. Sherlock had lead John into a rather large closet.  
"Cliché." John commented.  
"Lockable, descreet, and practical. The cliché is cliché for a reason. Though I assume if I desired I could have..."  
"Stop talking now." John said. Sherlock pouted, and John's alcohol muddled mind decided the taking things slowly was over. John backed Sherlock up against the wall and kissed him. Sherlock responded eagerly. Soon enough, John thought, there'd be more bare skin in this closet than there had ever been. 

A while later John and Sherlock returned to the party. Sherlock's hair was quite a bit more messy, most likely from a certain Doctor running his hands through it. Sherlock's suit was impeccably in place, but the first two buttons on his shirt were undone, displaying the developing hickey on his throat. John was staggering slightly, having had more to drink than he should have. Sherlock sat John at one of the tables and gestured to his mother.  
"Mummy, I'm going to escort John home. He's had too much to drink and I fear he may be under one of your tables if we stay longer."  
"Of course dear." Mummy Holmes leaned closer to Sherlock, and spoke in his ear. Sherlock smiled, but didn't respond.  
"Off with you! Go get John home!" She fluttered her hands at them, and Sherlock helped John up and into a cab, they were in their way back to the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh. The last note was coherent. Odd. You may think I'm halfway sane now, and we can't have that.
> 
> Orange! Mad Hatter!! Fruit tap dancing on desks!! Pineapple!!!! Hellooooo sexy!!!
> 
> That should do it.


	8. Mysterious Bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up in someone else's bed, only to discover someone else was sleeping in his bed

John woke up in someone else's bed. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten there, but his hangover was apparent. He rolled over in the bed, looking for someone next to him. He was alone, and it didn't look like he had had company the night before. But then, why was he in someone else's bed? He rolled to the other side, and found two painkiller tablets and a glass of water on the bedside table. He took the pills, and sat up. His head pounded and he bent over in pain. Where was he? There was a rediculously fluffy white duvet over him, and he appeared to be in only his pants. He swung his legs out of the bed, and promptly tripped over a large textbook on the floor. John looked around him, his mind clearing more as he woke up. There were shelves on one wall, cluttered with odd trinkets, a blow dart gun, a glass eye, a small can of yellow spray paint, and a bullet casing. The bullet casing gave him pause. He stood shakily and walked to the shelves. The casing was the same caliber as his pistol, and the gold coloring had been worn off. John recognized the shell. It was the bullet he had intended to kill himself with, a bullet he had turned over and over in his fingers many a night before he had met Sherlock, wearing the gold color off. He had not put the shell through his own skull, but through a killer, a day after he had met the man he now loved, and had never again considered suicide. John knew whose bed he had woken in. It was a room he'd never dared enter, but the textbooks and mementos of past cases made it obvious. This was Sherlock's bedroom. It had to be. John looked around on the floor for his clothes. They were nowhere to be seen. John opened the door, and poked his head out. The hallway was empty, and John walked cautiously, shy to be walking around the flat in only his pants. There seemed to be nowhere else in the flat, and so John relaxed, going up to his room to find some clothes. When John neared the door he could hear someone breathing evenly in sleep. Sherlock? John wondered. He opened the door carefully, and entered. Sherlock was curled up in John's bed, a startlingly white pillow under his head, John's gray pillow pressed against his nose. John smiled to himself, and opened his drawer to get some trousers. He slipped them on, and finding one of the jumpers Sherlock seemed to prefer. Sherlock looked childlike in sleep, and John smiled to himself. John gently kissed Sherlock's forehead, and the detective smiled in sleep. John left the room, as quietly as possible, knowing it was likely Sherlock would scoff at his display of sentiment. Sherlock hadn't removed John's engagement ring when he'd undressed him. Well, John assumed Sherlock had undressed him. John hated to think what he might have done in the hours he couldn't remember. John didn't know what a very drunk, intoxicated with love John would do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I havn't updated in a while.


	9. Slow or no

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes a blunder, and John makes assumptions.

John entered the kitchen, and stopped in his tracks. The dishes that had been in the sink had been disturbed, the individual dishes scattered. There was a suit jacket over one of the chairs at the table, a tie in the sink, a shoe on the counter, and a belt on the table. What had happened? John stepped into the room. He sighed. John made himself coffee and sat at the table to drink it. Footsteps came down the stairs as John gathered the scattered dishes.  
"What did you do last night?" John asked the figure in the doorway. Sherlock hurumphed.  
"The better question would be asking what YOU did last night." John's stomach plummeted. Oh no. What had he done.  
"What happened last night?" Sherlock smiled. John sighed, and turned back to his task. Suddenly John was flipped around by his shoulder, and pushed against the counter. His lips were captured, then released as the other pair of lips wandered over his jaw to down his neck and back up to his ear.  
"Something I would very much like to happen again." Sherlock purred.  
"Whaa, whaa, what would you like to happen again?"  
"Apply my methods." Sherlock whispered.

Sherlock smiled to himself, faking sleep on the couch. John was still been blushing profusely from whatever assumptions he had been making when Sherlock shut his eyes. What would he see now if he opened them? He opened them a sliver. On the coffee table sat a note. Sherlock's stomach sank.  
"Sherlock, it can't happen again. It's a game to you and I can't stand being played with. Sentiment, as always is the problem." Sherlock proceeded to act decidedly unSherlockish. He snatched the note, crumpled it up, and uncrumpled it, hoping that the procedure had changed the message on the note. It hadn't. Sherlock toppled to his side and curled into a ball. This could not be happening. This was what he was afraid of. He'd lost John! Nothing had happened last night! He'd brought a passed out John home, undressed him and put him to bed. He'd wanted John to think something had happened! He had wanted an actual relationship to form, and as quickly as possible! He'd only been trying to hurry it along! But now it was ruined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update! I've been aganizing over this chapter for the longest time!


	10. Where oh where could our Johnny boy be? Oh where oh where could he be?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plots are discovered.

There was a crumpled note in the bin that read "I can't stay like this, I love you too much."  
"John, I've loved you for two years. I never left. Why did you?"  
"Maybe you should tell him." Sherlock looked up.  
"Greg?"  
"Remembering my name now are we? It's been three days Sherlock. You're not answering calls, and neither is he. Mrs. Hudson finally called me. Something about you not moving for a day."  
"Where is John?"

"I don't know. But we'd better find him."  
With that Sherlock was up. John was missing. By three days? More than a bit not good. Lestrade stopped Sherlock before he got to the door.   
"Maybe you should get dressed before you go running through all of London." Sherlock went to his room dressing quickly. Where were his shoes? Ahh. Yes. In John's room, where he'd left them the night of the party. Sherlock ran up the stairs. He put on his shoes and turned to leave John's room, a knife was stuck in the back of the door, a note pinned beneath it.   
"10 little lover boys went out to dine" There was an awful feeling in Sherlock's stomach as he read the note. Agatha Christie had written a book about a nursery rhyme. 10 little soldier boys. "And then there were none" Sherlock had read it as a child. He ran down stairs.   
"People are going to start dying."  
"What?"   
"It's Moriarty. He's following the plot of "And then there were none"."   
"What?"  
"Everyone dies in the end. They each die according to the nursery rhyme '10 little soldier boys'. The first chokes, the second dies in their sleep and so on."   
"Bollocks!" Lestrade proclaimed and ran down the stairs. The question was, which number was John? Was he the first soldier boy? Or would he be the last ?


	11. The deaths begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Moriarty murders begin, and Sherlock is stumped

"One choked his little self, and then there were nine" Lestrade sighed, handing the note to Sherlock. The body it had been attached to was being carted away.   
"There are twenty victims. Not just ten. One for each line. One for the set up, one for the death." Lestrade swore. There were no clues, none that even Sherlock could find. 

John was in a dark room, smelling of wet carpet and trash. A door opened, and a light flicked on. John was momentarily blinded by the harsh light. He'd been bound to something, but allowed to sit.   
"Hiiiiiiii!" A voice sang. Moriarty.   
"Niice note you left by the way, shame it was a lie." The singsong grated on John's fraying nerves. "Poor Sherlock. He just found love! And now? Now to take it away." John tensed, anticipating pain, a wound, something that would kill him. "But not yet. There is a game to play first." The light shut off, and a door opened. "Goodbye! Little lover boy!" 

"Seven little lover boys chopping up sticks." "One chopped himself in half and then there were six." The two corpses hung side by side, bodies rent in two at the waist, bottom halves crumpled to the ground. As with the others, the faces had been removed, only the bloody muscle and skull remaining. Unlike the other sets, these two were together. The deaths were getting more gruesome, the poor people being targeted because of sentiment dying in more and more horrible ways. The first two choked, the second two overdosed, the third two being put up on stakes in the park. What would happen to John? Sherlock got into cab numbly, and someone followed him in.   
"221B Baker Street." Lestrade was sitting beside him.   
"What are you doing?"   
"Taking you home. You need to sleep."  
"But the case!"   
"There's nothing we can do about the case. The only thing we have is the altered wording and we have nothing to go on we can't get IDs for the victims so you're going home." Sherlock sighed. Resigned. He walked up the stairs to the flat, and the door was ajar. A knife was rammed into the table, pinning another note. "Your little lover boy, closer than you think, but be warned as he sits on the brink. Life or death await him on which way he falls, meet me at the swimming pool? You haven't got the gall."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The swimming pool. Cliché? Probably.


	12. Beatings and Bravery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is found. Sherlock acts unsherlocky.

"This little lover boy will die by broken heart." Sherlock whipped around, brandishing John's pistol.   
"You kill me and you will never find John."  
"I kill you and I don't have to worry about you ever taking him."   
"Oh please Sherlock. John is mine. He loves me."  
"No."  
"He does!" Moriarty sang. "And when we're in bed, the passion floods through the sheets like blood through the body. And when he co..."  
"Shut up." Moriarty laughed.   
"The truth hurts. Doesn't it? Ahh well. I'm off! People to kill and John to screw!" Sherlock fired. The bullet knicked Moriarty's ear. He turned and shook a finger. "Naughty naughty." An explosion rocked the floor, and Sherlock's vision went black. 

"Damnit Sherlock!" Lights flew past Sherlock's eyes.   
"Surgery, now!"

"How is he?"  
"We removed the shrapnel from the back of his head and bandaged the arm, but he still has a major concussion and we're keeping him sedated."  
"Can I see him?"   
"Sure." The doctor opened the door, and the bed in the center was empty. The IV dripped liquid on the ground and the window was open. A vase of flowers sat on the table.  
"Bollocks! We've got to find him!"

Sherlock clutched the note that had been delivered with the flowers. "Naughty Naughty little lover boy. You should've stayed home." Moriarty Had unwillingly, and unknowingly left a clue he shouldn't have.   
"Mrs. Hudson! Have you rented the flat downstairs yet?"  
"Yes deary! Only last week."  
"Take me down there!"  
"Sherlock, dear what happened to your head?"   
"Nothing to worry about! Take me to the downstairs flat!"  
"No need to shout." Mrs. Hudson unlocked the door. The flat was dim, with the smell of mildew and the sound of leather on flesh.   
"Stay here Mrs. Hudson."  
"He was awfully naughty, but he, well, he is too perfect to punish, but you! You I can punish all I wish. You stole his heart, which was to be mine! And you! You will break the perfect heart! You are the one incapable of love!" Each sentence was punctuated with a sharp snap. John was on his feet, arms chained above his head and feet cuffed to the floor at shoulders width. Moriarty stood, a leather whip in his hand, swinging at John. John's shirt was off, and his back bloody. Sherlock, anger rising in his stomach, tackled Moriarty, and pummeled him, hitting pressure points mercilessly, inducing as much pain as he could. He slammed Moriarty's head against the floor repeatedly.   
"Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock." John was chanting his name, and sounded as if he had been for while, but Sherlock had only just noticed. "Sherlock. He's out! Leave him be."  
"He hurt you."  
"I'm fine."  
"Lestrade. Bring bolt cutters and two ambulances."  
"What happened."  
"221C Baker Street. Now." 

"And how many times did he fall down?"   
"I've lost track." Lestrade huffed. John was at Bart's and Sherlock was itching to follow him there. Moriarty was there too, getting treated for a fractured skull, two breaks in his collar bone, a broken cheekbone, a major concussion, two broken ribs a broken arm, a broken leg, massive internal bleeding, and many brusies. All of which he deserved. In Sherlock's opinion. John had been beaten, and his torso was a bloody pulp. Sherlock twitched where he stood, itching to be at John's side, and not talking to Lestrade.   
"Sherlock, are you alright?"  
"John's in the hospital and I'm here talking to the police instead of being by his side!"   
"There's a cab outside waiting to take you to Bart's." Sherlock was out the door before Lestrade finished his sentence. 

John woke in a white walled room, with the gentle hum of machines and the quiet breathing of another person. Sherlock was thrown over a chair by his bed, coat wrapped around him and scarf cushioning his head. John had no desire to wake the detective, and simply watched him sleep. Lestrade walked in, quiet as to not wake Sherlock.  
"John. I don't have any right to say it, but if you love him, tell him. Because he sure loves you." John remained quiet for a moment.   
"How can you know?"  
"When I found him he was curled into a ball where Mrs. Hudson said he'd been since you left. He was reading and rereading two notes, and muttering something about loving you." John nodded silently, and sat thinking, until the detective inspector left. Sherlock was still asleep when the nurse came. She said they needed to X-ray him to see if the beating he'd taken had cracked a rib. A few minutes into the x-ray a roar came from outside.   
"Where is he?" There was a nurse's much quieter voice and Sherlock said something sharp to her.  
"Your boyfriend always this protective?" John shrugged slightly.  
"Sort of." Sherlock was waiting as soon as John was wheeled from the room. They reached John's room and Sherlock immediately began pacing.   
"Sherlock, are you alright?"   
"Moriarty's disappeared." There was a long pause, and Sherlock spoke again. "When I woke up and you weren't here, I thought you might have died, been taken again, or left because you..." another pause, "because I wasn't enough." Sherlock struggled with the words, and John was reminded that this wasn't his area. He had never spoken of feelings before, not like this. A nurse came in, and Sherlock bombarded her with questions. She told him that John's injuries didn't advance to broken bones, and that he would be able you go home later today. John closed his eyes, and wondered what would happen when they got home. How things would go, now that Sherlock seemed to be losing his grip on his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm out of service. Getting it where I can.


	13. Confessions of a Sociopath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally admits it!!

Sherlock had never had a pleasant addiction. Until now it seemed, and even now it stabbed at him every second. John. He needed John. It was something he wasn't used to. And John, John was dancing around him, as if, well, as if John didn't want Sherlock. Sherlock had lost the ability to analyze John. His brain stopped working when he looked at John. And it left only the need. John had loved him. Hadn't he? Best to ask, when John woke up. Sherlock laid on the couch, wondering how John would respond. 25% chance of laughter. 50% of rejection, for various reasons, one being John's sexuality crisis. 10% chance of acceptance. 10% chance John left and never came back, and 5% chance John would say what he felt. Not good odds. By anyone's standards. Footsteps on the stairs. Ahh. The game was on.   
"John." John turned and entered the living room. Sherlock's planned questions flew from his head. This was not a time to think! This was a time to act! He slipped to his feet and was across the room, one hand on the back of John's neck, the other cradling the side of his face as Sherlock kissed him. Sherlock kissed along John's jaw until reaching his ear.   
"I love you." He whispered. "Love me?" The second part came out as a plea, and Sherlock felt prepared to get down on his knees and beg.   
"I already do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!!! I hope you enjoyed it!!!!!!


End file.
